Murder at Rough Point (16 page)

But if that were so, how had that same person then crossed the lawns in the opposite direction and gained entrance to the house to murder Monsieur Baptiste without attracting the notice of the guests and servants?

I shook my head. All my instincts insisted the threat, if there was one, came from within, rather than without. But how . . . ?

As I again scanned the rear of the property, one landmark in particular drew my notice: the kitchen garden. Stretching from just beyond the service courtyard, the rectangular plot continued some two hundred feet along the southern edge of the property, ending in another gate closer to the Cliff Walk. Privet hedges formed tall, nearly solid walls around the garden, the intention being to shelter the cultivated plants from the winds, but also, I realized now, providing a private walkway across the property. I hadn't seen Claude and Vasili among the herbs and vegetables yesterday until I walked right up to the gate and peered in.

I remembered, too, that Patch had led me to the garden yesterday. I had wanted to keep him to the front of the house but he had insisted on leading me on a chase to the garden gate. Why? Had Patch seen something occur in the garden the evening Sir Randall died? On the surface it seemed a silly question and Jesse would have told me I was stretching facts to suit my hunches again. But Jesse wasn't here, and experience had taught me never to discount a possibility, no matter how far-fetched.

My senses abuzz, I longed for a break in the weather so I could inspect the garden. Perhaps I would find nothing, but I could at least walk the length from one end to another and judge whether my theory held plausibility. I glanced back to the rock-strewn ridge with its desolate bench and shredded flowers. And I realized I shouldn't wait, for should the weather deteriorate before it improved, every blast of rain and wind could potentially destroy any clues the garden might harbor. Even now it might be too late, but I had to try and I mustn't waste another minute.

“T
hank you for coming with me, Mrs. Wharton.” I spoke loudly to be heard over the rain. Though no longer torrential, a steady shower continued while intermittent gusts had us angling our umbrellas to prevent them from being shoved inside out. In the servants' porch we had borrowed ill-fitting mackintoshes, buttoning them to our chins and tying the hoods tight around our faces, and we each found a pair of tolerably fitting galoshes.

Sensing an adventure, Patch had begged to come along, but after taking him out to the service courtyard to accomplish his business, I returned him to Mrs. Harris's watchful eye in the kitchen. He would only ramble about and bring attention to Mrs. Wharton and myself as we went about our task.

“I'm willing to endure a dousing for you, Miss Cross,” she said in response to my thanks, putting emphasis on
you.

I knew she referred to the argument she'd had at breakfast with her husband, concerning the wisdom of attempting to drive home on potentially flooded Ledge Road. Living on Ocean Avenue as I did, I fully understood the dangers of deluged roads and had seen firsthand that what appeared to be a shallow puddle could in fact be a rushing stream waiting to drag an unsuspecting traveler into the thrashing tide. Yet while I had sided with Mrs. Wharton at the time, I had no desire to revisit the awkwardness of the rift between husband and wife.

When I gave no answer she walked ahead of me to open the garden gate. She placed a hand on my arm to still me before I could walk through. “I know you found Teddy's and my behavior abominable this morning. I apologize for that.”

“It is none of my business.” And yet curiosity rose up inside me. This morning wasn't the first time I'd found Teddy Wharton's behavior bordering on abominable.

“We had the bad taste to make it everyone's business, unfortunately. I regret that. But you see, he often drives me to my wits' end, and you've seen only a small bit of it. It isn't his fault, really. My husband suffers from acute melancholia, as his physician calls it, and I try to be tolerant. If only I'd been blessed with a more patient nature.”

I bit my tongue to keep from questioning her. If this melancholy caused her husband to lash out verbally, what about physically? Was he prone to sudden acts of violence? I needed to learn more about this, but not here in the rain, when we had other matters to attend to. “You don't need to apologize, Mrs. Wharton.”

“Perhaps not, but I wished you to understand. Now then . . .” She followed me into the garden and latched the gate behind us. “What are we looking for?”

“First, whether or not we would be visible from the house as we traverse the main garden paths.” I scrubbed droplets from my eyes and held my umbrella to shield me as much as possible. Head down, I moved to the outer path on the right side. “And also anything someone might have dropped or disturbed as they made their way from one end to the other. You take the left-hand path, and we'll simply study the ground at each step.”

“Sounds rather tedious.”

I straightened to regard her. “It's all right if you'd prefer to return to the house. I wouldn't mind, truly.”

She was already shaking her head and grinning, even as she moved to the path I had indicated. “Not a bit of it, Miss Cross. We all agreed none of us should be alone and I must admit I'm rather flattered you thought to include me in your intrigue. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

I briefly wondered about the earnestness of her question, or whether Brady informed my parents of my activities these past two summers, and they in turn had regaled their friends with my exploits. Would they have done such a thing—used the dangers I'd faced as a source of amusement?

“What is it, Miss Cross? You look perturbed. Did I say something?”

“No, I'm sorry, it's nothing. And yes, I seem to do this more often than one would wish.”

She nodded as if only now realizing the gravity of the situation, that this was not a game but an attempt to discover who might have pushed Sir Randall to his death. “Then let's get on with it, shall we?”

With rows of vegetation separating us, we painstakingly made our way along the garden's length. I paid particular attention to the first of the stepping-stones that connected the two walkways, where Claude and Vasili had stood talking yesterday. The rain had washed away all signs of their having been there. Not a footprint had survived the onslaught, and one could no longer distinguish whether either man had trod on the foliage, or if the rain had flattened the plants.

Mrs. Wharton appeared at my shoulder. “Did you find something?”

“Only the suggestion that our efforts will be in vain.” I shook my head. “I already knew Monsieur Baptiste and Mr. Pavlenko were out here yesterday, but today's rain has washed away all signs of their presence. I can only surmise evidence of anyone else who passed this way to have met with a similar fate.”

“What on earth would Claude and Vasili be doing out here? I hardly think either of them has an interest in horticulture, nor are they the sort to find pleasure in plucking vegetables like a kitchen hand.”

“I suspect they wished for privacy, and where better on the estate? I have to admit, their friendship puzzled me.”

She made her way back to the left-hand path, saying as she went, “They were an odd match, I'll give you that. But it was Claude who coaxed Vasili to begin caring about his life again after the accident. . . .”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“A train derailment. Teddy and I weren't in Europe at the time. We were in New York. The others don't like to talk about it, and Vasili won't speak of it at all.”

Her words triggered the memory of Miss Marcus's accusation that Claude refused to cast her as Carmen because he and Vasili blamed them all for what happened. “Does Mr. Pavlenko blame the others for the accident?”

“I don't see why he would. None of the others were on the train with him that night, so it isn't as if anyone could have helped him when the train derailed.”

We continued our visual sweep of the garden paths, every so often turning and assessing whether we could be seen from the house. The garden's tall hedges even shielded much of the view from the upper story, proving my theory correct: that someone could have made his or her way down to the Cliff Walk from the house without being spotted.

By the time we reached the far gate we had discovered nothing of interest in our inspection, nor did I expect to find anything once we stepped back out onto the lawn. The gate creaked and then clanged shut behind us. Mrs. Wharton and I stood side by side staring down at nothing but gleaming spikes of grass. I let out a sigh.

Mrs. Wharton was not to be deterred, however, and took several strides before coming to a halt. Then she turned about and gazed up at the house. “Only someone on the third floor could see us from here. I believe you are correct in your assumption that this would have been the route taken by someone intent on harming Randall.”

“Yes, I see that. But I still have no proof of that having occurred.”

Suddenly my companion leaned over, holding her umbrella, not over her head, but over whatever had caught her attention on the ground. “Miss Cross, come here.”

I closed the distance in several steps and followed the line of Mrs. Wharton's pointing finger. “Is this something?” she asked.

Balancing my umbrella against my shoulder, I sank to a crouch and reached out, carefully grasping the item in question between my thumb and forefinger. It immediately threatened to dissolve at my touch, so I let it fall into my palm and cupped it gently. Mrs. Wharton took hold of my elbow to help me up, and then we both stood beneath our umbrellas squinting down at the sodden roll of brown paper stuffed with shreds of partially charred tobacco.

“A cigarette,” she said.

“Indeed.” My pulse jumped. Had I found my clue? I whirled about to judge the distance between us and the garden. For a more accurate measure, I walked back to the gate and counted my paces.

“Someone may have tossed it over the gate,” Mrs. Wharton suggested.

I had immediately thought of that, too. “It's not impossible,” I hated to admit, “though it would have been a far toss.”

“Perhaps Vasili or Claude.”

“Possibly . . .”

“Or the last time the gardener was here.”

“No, definitely not the gardener,” I said quickly.

“How do you know?”

“Because no one who works for my uncle Frederick would dare litter his lawn, not even with a morsel as small as this.”

Mrs. Wharton nodded in understanding. “I don't suppose they would at that.”

“It's possible whoever pushed Sir Randall crept through the garden to avoid being seen on his way to the footbridge, and to calm his nerves he smoked a cigarette along the way, dropping it here before continuing on.” I slipped the morsel into the pocket of my mackintosh.

“You believe it was one of us, then.” She didn't pose this as a question, but rather a calm statement of fact.

“Or one of the servants,” I murmured, but without much conviction. With the group only recently arrived from Europe, I could not imagine Mrs. Harris, Irene, Carl, or even surly Mr. Dunn having had the time to develop a grudge against any of the guests.

Which left the guests themselves, among whom grudges seemed to flourish like barnacles on a hull. As to which member of the group, I couldn't begin to guess. Most of them smoked these vile cigarettes, even Miss Marcus. And considering the temperamental nature of these artists and the tangle of rancor that existed between them, who could say which of them finally snapped. There was Vasili with his mysterious resentments concerning his accident; Miss Marcus with her bitterness over her fading career; Niccolo Lionetti, perhaps in love with Josephine Marcus and acting on her behalf; Teddy Wharton and his acute melancholia, seeming always to find fault in his wife and obviously jealous of other men; my own father, who had angered a black market art dealer and put the entire group of his friends at risk. As for my mother and Mrs. Wharton, I could not find enough reason to suspect either of them.

“If the same person killed both men,” I said to Mrs. Wharton, “he must have had access to the house.”

“
Has
access.”

“Yes.”

“And your thoughts concerning the staff?”

I frowned. “What motive could a member of the staff have to murder someone they've never met before? Their lives depend on their positions, as they would have little recourse if they were to be dismissed. Servants may grumble, but most are grateful for their employment, and I cannot see any of them doing anything to risk that.”

I half expected Mrs. Wharton to resolve then and there to quit Rough Point, flooded roads or no. She did not, but as the raindrops became plumper, making loud, plop-plop sounds on our umbrellas, she increased my admiration of her by stoically saying, “Come, the storm is picking up again. We'd best get back.”

* * *

Mr. Dunn had intercepted me in the Stair Hall as Mrs. Wharton and I were about to return to our rooms to change into dry clothing. “Miss Cross, a telephone call for you. You may use Mr. Vanderbilt's office. The connection is most tenuous so I suggest you hurry.”

I could hear quiet murmurs and the clicking of ivory balls coming from the billiard room. Other voices drifted down the staircase from the sitting room upstairs. Mrs. Wharton scampered up the steps ahead of me, eager to be dry. I felt the same eagerness, as well as wishing to stash away the bit of evidence I had found outside. I held it now in a small tea leaf tin Mrs. Harris found for me in a cupboard.

“Who is it, Mr. Dunn?”

He eyed my wet hems but only said, “A Mrs. O'Neal.”

I hurried past him. In my uncle's office I came to an abrupt halt, my shoes skidding slightly on the polished wood floor. I hadn't expected to find my father standing before the desk, with the receiver in hand. “Father—Mr. Dunn said Nanny called. Is that her you're speaking to?”

Nodding, he held the handset of the brass and ebony desk phone to his ear and spoke into the receiver. “Emma's here, Nanny, so I'll pass you over to her. Good speaking to you.” To me he said, “I was just attempting to contact the Western Union office in town to send a wire to your brother in New York. The operator interrupted with Nanny's call. Here you are.”

As he passed by me he paused and reached his arms around me. He said nothing, just squeezed me a moment before smiling down at me, then let go and strode away.

A glow spread inside me the likes of which I hadn't felt in a good many years. Tears misted my eyes as I recalled what it had been like, upon occasion, to be the absolute center of someone else's world—my father's world. For there
had
been times when he had set aside his artistic endeavors and made time for me. As I grew older and his career began to flourish, those times became fewer and farther between, until I'd learned to live without his attentions. But I realized now I had never stopped missing them.

Blinking and even wiping a damp sleeve across my eyes, I set down the tea tin and snatched up the telephone receiver. “Hello, Nanny? Is everything all right? Are
you
all right?”

“We're fine here, sweetie.” Her voice crackled and popped across the wire. “We've plenty of stores in the larder and canned goods in the cupboards. I'm calling to say you mustn't even think of attempting . . .” Here static enveloped her words, and I called her name into the mouthpiece. After a moment, I heard her again. “Did you hear?”